Thursday, October 27, 2011

pocked poppy red II

i have warhol's tampered skin.
a homeless person wrapped in a sleeping bag.
damp. worn.
stiletto's and buffed italian loafers tip toe over it during rush hour.
over it.
tragic. flawed.
they stand blank in comparison.
a canvas in comparison.
one-two-three maybe. nothing war paint couldn't cure.
an army could not conquer my opposition to porcelain.
born past my time.
oil paintings and black and white stills could have been my friend.
i remain, always - pocked poppy red.